Chapter 31
PIPER
I'm practically running across campus, my coffee-stained notes from my Machine Learning final still crumpled in my bag. The Senior Showcase started twenty minutes ago, and I promised myself I wouldn't go.
I've been to every showcase since freshman year—it's tradition, free food, plus you get to see what you'll be capable of creating someday. That's what I told Riya when she asked why I was going. Just keeping up tradition. Nothing to do with Ethan being fourth on the presentation list.
But who am I kidding? I memorized the schedule the moment it was posted.
The auditorium doors are closed when I arrive, the universal sign for “presentation in progress.” Through the small window, I can see someone on stage with what looks like a VR headset. Whale sounds leak through the doors.
Not Ethan yet. Thank God.
I slip inside as quietly as possible, finding an aisle seat in the fifth row just as Professor Long takes the mic.
He announces Ethan and my heart stops.
He walks onto the stage looking unfairly good in a navy button-down I've never seen him wear.
His hands shake slightly as he sets up his laptop, and something in my chest twists knowing he's nervous.
I want to tell him he's brilliant, that his game is revolutionary, that he has nothing to worry about.
But I lost that right when I kept secrets.
“Hi, everyone. I'm Ethan, and I'd like to tell you a story about losing everything.”
The next fifteen minutes are torture and transcendence combined. Watching him command that stage, seeing the audience lean in as he explains his vision, the gasps when the staff breaks—it's like watching someone step into exactly who they're meant to be.
But then he starts talking about the beta feedback. My feedback.
“A beta tester told me something that changed everything. They said 'shock doesn't equal satisfaction.'“
Those are my words. My exact words from the review that destroyed everything between us.
“They were absolutely right. I'd confused making players feel something with making them feel something meaningful.”
He's not angry. He's... grateful?
The presentation continues, showing the choice mechanism I inspired, the three paths to destruction that somehow feel like hope. The audience is captivated. Someone in the front row—definitely an industry person—is taking rapid notes.
Then comes then in the Q&A someone asks.
“The choice mechanism at the end is revolutionary. It solves a problem we've been discussing in the industry for years—how to give players agency without sacrificing narrative integrity. How did you come up with that solution?”
“Honest feedback,” Ethan says, and suddenly he's looking directly at me. “I had a friend—a brilliant, analytical friend—who played my first version and told me exactly what was wrong with it.”
Friend. He called me a friend.
“They gave me brutal honesty when I needed it most, even though... Even though I wasn’t ready to receive it.”
My eyes burn. He understands. He understands I was trying to help, that I was scared, that I never meant to hurt him.
“Their critique made me realize I'd been so focused on my own vision that I'd forgotten about the player's experience. They taught me that the best art isn't about imposing your will on the audience—it's about creating a conversation.”
A tear escapes before I can stop it. He turned my harsh review into something beautiful. He took my criticism—the thing that broke us—and made it into art.
When the standing ovation starts, I'm on my feet immediately, clapping so hard my palms sting. He looks over the audience, and when our eyes meet, I try to tell him everything I can't say out loud.
I'm sorry. I'm so proud of you. You're brilliant. I love you.
I mouth something—I don't even know what—and then I have to leave because if I stay, I'll do something stupid like run onto that stage and kiss him in front of three hundred people.
I slip out the side door, my heart racing. He doesn't hate me. He took my worst mistake and turned it into his greatest triumph. He called me brilliant. He looked at me like...
Like maybe I haven't fucked everything up irreparably for the first time since that horrible morning when he found out the truth. I have hope.
Maybe I didn't ruin everything.
Maybe brutal honesty—even delivered too late, wrapped in fear—can still become something beautiful.
Maybe we can still choose how we face this failure, together.
Before I can even think about fixing things with Ethan—before I deserve that chance—I need to close this chapter once and for all. No more secrets, no more allowing Miles to have any power over my life.
I need to deal with the past before I can figure out the future.
Tomorrow, I'll meet Miles. I'll tell Harper the truth she deserves to know. I'll stop protecting someone who never protected me.
And then, only then, will I be brave enough to fight for Ethan the way he deserves—with complete honesty, no matter how terrifying.
Because maybe that's what choosing how to fail means. You face the hard conversations first. You close the doors that need closing. You stop letting fear write your story.
And then, if you're very lucky, you get to write a better ending.
But first, Miles. One last conversation to set us both free.
CC’s at 6 PM on a Tuesday feels like neutral territory, but my hands shake as I stir sugar into coffee I don’t want. Miles sits across from me in the same booth where Ethan and I have sat many times after tutoring and the irony isn’t lost on me.
He looks good. He always looks good—that’s never been the problem. Dark hair perfectly tousled, expensive sweater that brings out his eyes, the kind of effortless confidence that used to make my stomach flip.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he says, fingers drumming against his mug. “I know this is weird.”
“You said it was about Harper.”
“It is.” He glances around the diner, then leans forward. “She’s been asking questions, Pipes. About us. About our friendship.”
My stomach clenches. “What kind of questions?”
“She found some old texts on my laptop. From last summer.” His jaw ticks. “She’s wondering why we stopped hanging out so suddenly. Why you disappeared from the study group right when she joined.”
The coffee turns to acid in my mouth. “What did you tell her?”
“That we had a falling out over a project. But she’s not buying it.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I catch a glimpse of the boy I thought I knew. “She thinks something happened between us.”
“Something did happen between us.”
The words hang in the air like smoke. Miles’s eyes dart to mine, then away.
“You know it didn’t really. Not properly. Look, I need your help here,” he says quietly. “Harper’s... she’s important to me. I can’t lose her over some misunderstanding about what we were.”
“Misunderstanding?” The word comes out sharper than I intended.
“You know what I mean. It was just—we were friends. Good friends. And maybe things got a little complicated toward the end, but—”
“Complicated?” I’m staring at him now, really staring, and something cold is spreading through my chest. “Miles, we slept together. For three months.”
“Keep your voice down.” He glances around again, and that’s when it hits me. He’s not here because he’s sorry. He’s not here because he feels guilty or wants to make amends.
He’s here because he’s scared.
“You want me to lie to Harper,” I realize aloud.
“I want you to not unnecessarily complicate my relationship over something that didn’t mean anything.”
The words hit like a slap. “Didn’t mean anything?”
“Pipes, come on. You know what I mean. It was just... we were lonely. It was convenient. But we both knew it wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Did we?” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “Because I remember you saying a lot of things that suggested otherwise.”
His face hardens. “I never promised you anything.”
“No, you just said you couldn’t wait to be with me properly once you figured things out with that other girl. You said you were keeping things casual with her because you didn’t want to hurt her over text. You said—”
“I said a lot of things.” He cuts me off. “But I never said I loved you.”
The casualness of it steals my breath. Like he’s discussing the weather. Like three months of my life, three months of hope and secrets and stolen moments, were just... nothing.
“Look Piper, I know you were in love with me,” he continues, voice gentle in that condescending way I used to mistake for kindness. “But I hope you’re smart enough and not so bitter and jealous to let that ruin what Harper and I have now.”
The words stop me cold. “Wait. You knew?”
“Of course, I knew. It was obvious.”
“You knew I was in love with you, and you still...” The memory crashes over me, drowns me. Last August. Two days before Harper came back from her summer abroad.
We’re in his apartment, late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. I’m wearing his t-shirt, nothing else, curled against his chest while some Netflix show plays in the background. His fingers trace patterns on my shoulder.
“This is nice,” I murmur against his skin.
“Mmm.” His hand stills. “Harper gets back Thursday.”
My stomach tightens, but he’s been saying this for weeks—that he needs to end things properly with her, in person, that it’s only fair. “I know.”
“So we should probably... you know. Figure things out.”
“Figure things out how?”
He’s quiet for so long I tilt my head to look at him. His expression is distant, almost calculating.
“Miles?”
“I should probably focus on my relationship when she gets back. See where it goes.”
The words don’t make sense. “But I thought—you said you were going to—”
“I said I’d figure it out. And I have.” He sits up, gently disentangling himself from me. “Harper and I have something real, Pipes. I didn’t know that before, but I know that now. I can’t throw that away for...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to.
For whatever this is. For whatever I am.